Faramir Fiction Archive

Intentions (NC-17)

Written by RubyElf

18 March 2012 | 26062 words

Title: Intentions
Author: RubyElf
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir

Thranduil arrives unexpectedly, Arwen solves everybody’s problems before dinner, Eomer is looking for his elf, hobbits are unhappy, Boromir is annoyed, and apparently Gandalf has shown up with some plans for Legolas and Faramir that perhaps he should have asked them about first.

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Intentions – Part 4

Merry and Pippin spent much of the evening looking for Berendir. None of the city guards seemed to know where he might be, and the ones who did have some idea seemed just as likely to have seen Legolas as his brother and to be confusing the two; as a result, the two of them managed to find Legolas three separate times, and not find Berendir even once. On the third occasion Legolas, whose sense of humor seemed to decrease with each encounter, suggested that they give up their hunt and go home or risk unpleasant consequences if they happened to locate him a fourth time.

“You’d think we kept finding him instead of Berendir on purpose,” Pippin sulked, as he and Merry made their way toward the kitchen to procure a nighttime snack before retiring.

“I’m quite certain that us finding him instead of Berendir had a lot to do with him not wanting us to find Berendir,” Merry said.

“What’s he doing? Hiding him somewhere?”

“No, idiot… just making sure that wherever we went looking for Berendir, he was there instead.”

“So where is Berendir?” Pippin asked impatiently.

“I don’t know everything, Pip,” Merry muttered. “We’ll look again in the morning.”

Boromir had just departed from guard station closest to his rooms, having spent most of the day there waiting for any news of strange elves approaching the city, when a lean figure detached itself from the twilight shadows along the wall and fell into step beside him. Boromir kept walking, waiting for Legolas to speak.

“Did you send hobbits after me?” he asked.

Boromir grinned. “Yes. But only to get rid of them, and to cheer up Pippin. Nothing he likes better than being on a mission, you know.”

“I see.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes.

“My father will be here in the morning,” Legolas said, as casually as if he’d mentioned the weather. “Faramir is accompanying him.”

Boromir frowned. “Faramir? Wait, how do you…”

Legolas raised an eyebrow. Boromir rolled his eyes.

“Right, right. You two and your… thing. Does Faramir know what he’s up to?”

“No. I suppose we’re going to find out, though.”

They kept walking, Boromir thinking to himself that elves could be dreadfully annoying when they were in a contemplative mood and wondering when he’d started bothering to notice things such as elves’ moods.

“I would be troubling Faramir instead of you, but he’s not here,” Legolas said. “And I don’t particularly wish to speak to my brother at the moment.”

“Where is he, anyway?”

“Down in the public library, researching the history of Rohan.”

“Is he,” Boromir said, chuckling. “I’m sure that wouldn’t have anything to do with his interest in a certain Horse Lord, would it?”

Legolas shrugged. “I don’t know. I just sent him down there because I didn’t want the hobbits to find him, and I knew they wouldn’t find him there.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they’ve been barred from the library since they got butter on some very old scrolls and the librarian complained to Aragorn about it. She has his permission to hit them with a broom if they so much as set foot in the door… I think that was Aragorn’s concession to make her stop screeching about it.”

Boromir had nearly reached his door, and he slowed his pace. “Is there a reason you don’t want to speak to your brother at the moment?”

“He has his own worries,” Legolas said evasively.

“All right, elf. You were waiting for me outside the guard station for a reason. Either get on with it or go away.”

Legolas smiled. “I was wondering how long you would try to be considerate.”

“What do you want, Legolas?”

“Do you have wine in your rooms?”

Boromir blinked. “Well, yes. Assuming the hobbits haven’t been in it.”

“Anything stronger?

“I have a few bottles of barley whisky. Rough stuff… Faramir brought it back from his last trip to Ithilien, but he thought it was vile, so he gave it to me.”

“Your brother has refined tastes,” Legolas said, ignoring Boromir’s glare. “I’m not in the mood to be refined at the moment.”

“No? What are you in the mood for?”

“Getting drunk,” the elf said. “Preferably very drunk. Don’t worry… I don’t expect you to match my consumption; I’m merely requesting your company while I do so.”

Boromir stopped at his door, retrieving his key from his pocket. “You know, Aragorn probably has some much better-quality liquors, if you…”

“I don’t care to talk to Aragorn at the moment.”

“There’s rather a lot of people you don’t care to talk to at the moment. What makes you want to talk to me, when you’re in such a mood?”

“Have you turned into a hobbit, with all these questions?”

Boromir chuckled as he opened the door. “Come in, elf. If you want to get drunk, I’m sure I can assist you. And if you’d prefer, I won’t bother to ask you why.”

“I suspect you don’t have to,” Legolas said.

“You know I’ll hear about it from my brother if he arrives here tomorrow and finds you curled up in bed with the blinds drawn and a selection of Aragorn’s headache remedies at your side,” Boromir observed, closing the door behind them as Legolas wandered over to sit down in one of the armchairs by the hearth. Finn looked up from her spot on the rug, taking note of the elf before giving Boromir a baleful glare.

“Sorry, lass,” he said. “Didn’t mean to leave you alone all day. I did send someone to take you out to the garden for a while.”

Finn snorted and flopped back down onto the rug with a dramatic sigh.

“She’s just trying to make you feel guilty,” Legolas said, tossing a log on the fire. “I saw her out earlier today with one of the stable boys and she was as happy as could be. She just wants you to think she was miserable without you so you’ll feel bad.”

“Typical female,” Boromir muttered.

“Some females might take offense at that,” Legolas said.

Boromir chuckled and retrieved the key to his wine cabinet from its location on top of a tall dresser, where he’d placed it to keep it out of reach of hobbits. Not that it had made much difference; both of the hobbits, but particularly Merry, had become quite adept at picking locks on cabinets, pantries, and other such forbidden storage areas. He found a bottle of the barley whiskey Faramir had given him and pulled out the cork, wincing at the sharp, acrid smell.

“Ugh! You sure you want to drink this, elf? I can’t imagine that your kind make a habit of putting anything this foul in your immortal bodies.”

“My kind also doesn’t make a habit of getting drunk,” Legolas said. “Or of chatting with me about what we do and don’t drink, for that matter.”

Boromir retrieved two glasses and sat down in the other armchair. He poured himself a glass of the foul stuff, but before he could pour one for Legolas, the elf plucked the bottle from his hand and raised it to his mouth, taking a generous swallow. Boromir watched curiously, expecting Legolas to spit it out, but the elf just gasped for breath once or twice, then recovered.

“That is quite unpleasant,” he observed.

“I told you, I have…”

Legolas lifted the bottle again and took another large gulp. Boromir raised his eyebrows.

“You’ll do yourself harm at that rate, elf.”

Legolas glanced over at him. “I intend to. Cheers, Boromir.”

“What are we drinking to?”

“I’ll think of something.”

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